Protective
by soulofawinchester
Summary: Grace and the boys are on a hunt, and something goes amiss. Caught up in her old habits and feelings, Grace turns not to the boys, but to something much less forgiving.


Author: soulofawinchester

Character: Dean Winchester

Type: One Shot

POV: First Person

Word Count: 1781

Warnings: Self-harm, depressive and suicidal thoughts

"I'm sorry boys..." I mumbled through my trembling lips.

I knew Sam and Dean would be angry if they found out what I was doing. Dean would probably punch a hole in something. I could almost hear him shouting at me, simultaneously swinging his fist into one of the hideous lamps on the dresser next to the bathroom door. And Sam... Sam would look so hurt and so sad to see me doing this to myself. He would give me that puppy-dog look and then close his eyes, not wanting me to see the hurt, the pain that filled them. And that was the very reason I was doing any of this in the first place. Because I knew how big of a disappointment I was to them.

Our last hunt had gone so bad that Dean was all but bed-ridden for the next two days afterward. And Sam, oh God I had almost gotten Sam killed. That was how Dean had broken three ribs and his left wrist in the process, saving Sam. Sam still had the bruises on his neck from the spirit that had choked him.

This bastard had been particularly nasty. He was emitting so much ectoplasm that all three of us were slipping in it. Both Dean and I were covered in it, being held down by the spirit on the floor while it closed in on Sam. Even with as powerful as it was, it couldn't hold all three of us at once. As it focused in on Sam, I felt the pressure lift off my chest, allowing me to move. Immediately I grabbed for the salt gun, but in my scrambling the ghost slammed me back against the wall. As it threw me, my foot had kicked the gun closer to Sam. But there was no way he could get to it. The murderous spirit had his hands clamped down on Sam's windpipe and I could tell he was struggling to breathe.

My vision was fading, black splotches popping up and sliding across my eyes. He had really thrown my skull against the wall. I could see Sam's foot edging toward the gun, trying to kick it over to Dean. As soon as the spirit noticed, he started slamming Sam's head into the concrete wall. His leg went limp and Dean yelled. I could make out Sam's head lolling to the side as the spirit grinned around at Dean, knowing it was causing him pain.

And then all of a sudden Dean dived for the gun as best he could. Luckily he got to it before the spirit picked him up again. Dean was forced against the wall, the ghost dropping Sam and now focusing on Dean. It tried to twist Dean's hand off the gun, but he was too enraged to let go. A scream echoed off the walls from Dean's lungs and I could hear his bones cracking. As the spirit neared, Dean pumped the shotgun and squeezed the trigger.

Finally the spirit was gone, for the moment, and Dean threw the gun to the ground. He scrambled over to Sam, picking him up by the collar of his shirt. I hobbled closer to them and Dean started yelling, shaking Sam and telling him to wake up. There was true fear and panic in Dean's eyes. And I had put it there. Because I had screwed up again, Dean had almost lost his brother. If Sam hadn't just been unconscious...

I curled my legs into myself, tears falling into my lap. The ragged, aching hole in my chest was throbbing again. I hadn't felt it in so long, it had come back with a vengeance. As I shook there on the bathroom floor of the motel, I could feel my pocket knife press against my thigh. I hadn't used it for this in over a year. My self-abuse had been toned down to thoughts and angst-filled journal entries. I thought I was over it. I hadn't done anything physically damaging to myself since I met the Winchesters. But that was about to change.

My trembling fingers slid my knife out of the pocket of my jeans. I looked at it a moment, almost like I was cradling an old friend in my hands. I took the main blade between my fingers and flipped it upright. Now I could really feel my heart pounding. The anticipation was driving me insane. Slowly, I brought the blade down on my skin, parting it across my wrist. Instantly a thick crimson liquid spilled out. I could barely see what I was doing now. The tears were clouding my vision so fully all I could feel was the pain. And it ebbed away at the ragged hole in my chest, filling it with the blood that was seeping out of the cuts on my wrist.

Now the scarlet was soaking into my jeans, my messy fingers slipping on the handle of the knife as I switched hands. It clattered to the floor and I hurriedly scooped it up in my other hand, wincing as my open wrist twisted. Sobs shook my chest, and I felt more blood seep into my jeans, warm against my cold skin. One more cut and I would be bloody enough to stop. But what was stopping me? Why did I deserve to live when I had nearly gotten the two people most dear to me killed? All I was doing was putting their lives at risk, more so than they already were.

I took a deep breath. As much as I wanted to drag that knife down both my arms, I knew I didn't have the stomach to do it. I knew I didn't have the nerve to kill myself. Anger flooded through me as more tears spilled down my cheeks. I couldn't even get that right. As rage flashed hot into my chest, I clutched the knife in my palm, slicing it too. I threw the knife across the small expanse of the bathroom, hard enough to shatter part of the shower door. Glass rained down onto the grimy tile and I heard a squeak from one of the bed-springs in the room outside.

A twang of fear ricocheted through me. Before I had time to do much of anything, a fist pounded at the door. Dean's voice followed it.

"Grace? You okay in there?" he asked, a tone of concern mixed with suspicion leaking from his lips.

I didn't have the heart to reply. It was over. He was going to find me, and then they would surely send me packing to the nut house. Once he saw what I was doing he would want nothing to do with me.

Dean knocked on the door a few times more before I heard sounds of metal against metal at the knob. He was picking the lock. This fact shocked me. Somehow I had imagined him just kicking in the door so he could yell and scream at me. What did he think I was doing in here? What else _could _I be doing?

The door swung open, and a rush of warm air hit me. I could smell the strong scent of whiskey waft toward me as Dean strode forward, his eyes widening. He reached out his hands as he crouched down next to me, but I could tell they were trembling. There was nothing he could do, and he had no idea what _to _do.

"Gracie... Gracie what are you doing?" he breathed, letting out the breath he'd been holding in since he laid eyes on me, sitting here covered in my own blood. His eyes darted from my red-soaked jeans up to my face and around again. "What are you doing this for?"

I took a moment to reply. "What am I doing this for? Nothing, I'm doing it for _you_," I mumbled, not looking up at him. His stubbled jaw clenched and I could hear him take a breath.

"You are not doing this for me, Gracie, I don't want you to do this."

"You would be so much better off if you did!" I lashed back, setting both hands on the floor to prop myself up. More blood dripped down my palms and onto the tile. "You two would have been fine if it weren't for me!" I crumpled now, remembering the look in Dean's eyes when he was shaking Sam, begging him to wake. "You would have been fine if I..."

"Grace, stop it. Stop." Dean stretched out both hands now, taking me by my wrists. I winced, but he clenched his fingers around them, staunching the bleeding. "If you hadn't been there, both Sam and I would be dead right now. Got it?"

I blinked back the tears in my eyes, giving him what I thought was a confused look.

"If you hadn't kicked that gun, I never would have been able to get to it. That son of a bitch would've choked Sam to death, and then me. He was angry enough to pull it off." Dean let out a sigh, shutting his eyes for a brief second. He opened them and looked at me straight, his expression hard. "We are alive because of you. You don't get to feel guilty about that."

A shiver ran down my spine. I hadn't looked at it that way. I had never looked at any of our hunts that way. To me, it felt like I was always getting in the way. Like I was holding them back. "Do you mean that?" I asked.

"Abso-fucking-lutely. Now come on," he said, pressing his lips into a hard line and pulling me to my feet. As he focused on washing off my hands in the sink, I let a smile pass briefly over my lips. I could feel that hole in my chest dissolving. I hadn't realized the Winchesters needed me as much as I needed them.

"Thanks Dean," I muttered. He quickly wrapped both my wrists in some gauze from the medicine cabinet, tearing off the ends with his teeth. I let my arms fall to my sides and just looked up at him, inhaling the scent of whiskey and something I couldn't quite place. Something that was just... Dean. He looked down at me, and pulled me into a hug, resting his chin on top of my head. I gingerly put my arms around him and hugged back.

"Don't ever do that to me again Gracie. Because next time I'm putting a hole in the wall."

I chuckled into the fabric of his shirt against my face. "No next time," I mumbled, hugging him tighter still.


End file.
